Evidently, or so I’m told, it’s less than a month until a third little bowl is headed our way. What! It doesn’t feel like it. From time to time I catch myself assuming that this is just how life is going to be from now on, having a watermelon for a belly, the mysterious inability to ever feel cold, and a maximum waddling velocity of a couple yards per hour. I assumed for so long that pregnancy would be difficult that it’s disorienting — and, I’m sure, obnoxious — to end up one of those women who actually loved most of it. (Predictably, I’m now just scared about whether the next one will be the one that’s bad.)

We’re back! So far, married life has mostly consisted of (a) jet lag, (b) coffee, and (c) delivery pizza. Our first morning back we woke up at 3 AM, B2 played video games in our brightly-lit living room against a pitch-black window and it felt like a super fun sleepover all-nighter, and then we spent the more mundane mornings after that consuming about sixteen cups of coffee and a pound of cheesy bread (leftover from delivery pizza, of course) for breakfast because post-wedding diet. On Monday I went back to work and discovered that nothing much had changed in my three weeks away, except that my office door now sticks in the door jamb and appears as reluctant to let me in as I am to enter. Mysteriously expanding doors aside, it’s not like we really expected anything to change — but somehow things do feel just the slightest bit different now that we’re married. In the best way. (Maybe it’s the carbs.)

Hi friends! How was your Valentine’s Day? I feel like these last few days have been quintessentially wintry in our parts — we had a serene and snowy Valentine’s Day in New York, followed by a couple of those sharp, frigidly brilliant days where everything seems pale, still, and muted by the cold. I went out on Sunday for a few forgotten errands (I always feel this compulsion to stock up on everything I think we’ll need whenever it looks like a stretch of unpleasant weather is headed our way — and then I always fail and forget something) and I thought it was surprisingly peaceful, being one of the few bundled-up folks on the quiet, frosted sidewalks, under a bright blue sky and distant but vibrant sunshine.

I have kind of a funny relationship with the South. I spent most of my childhood in the land of sweet tea and fried chicken, but while living there, I don’t know if I would have ever identified as “Southern.” There are some ways in which the South and I just didn’t really get along, and when I left, I figured I’d head out and not look back. In that funny twisty-turny way that life likes to go, though, since leaving for the Tundra I’ve come to appreciate the South in ways I didn’t anticipate. I’ve found that there are a lot of things I’ve come to miss, a lot of things that I’ve brought with me, many of which I didn’t even know were Southern until I left.

Like the word “poot.” Y’all, somebody just pooted.*

*I am alarmed by some of the Urban Dictionary definitions of this word. No, guys, it just means fart.

And, more relevantly, pimento cheese. It’s no secret that the one thing I’ve had no trouble embracing about my quasi-heritage is the cuisine. Batter it and fry it, dump a pound of sugar in it, extra mayo, extra butter, please and thank you. When it came to pimento cheese, though, I didn’t even know it was a thing that was Southern, and not merely ubiquitous. Until my first summer in New York, where I got hit with a sudden craving for a plain old pimento cheese sandwich on white bread — simple enough, until I spent literally hours combing the lower part of Manhattan for a store that sold it. I was baffled. And then informed by Google and Wikipedia (my most reliable sources of information) that it is “a common food preparation in the Southern United States.” Um. The entirety of the rest of the United States was a food desert.

I kid. (Partially.) But I mean, cheese and mayo? And not only that, but creamy, just barely pungent extra sharp cheddar, paired with the sweet tang of rosy pimiento peppers and a touch of heat from a pinch of cayenne, and married with mayonnaise? From my perspective, that seems like a recipe for culinary ubiquity however you slice it. There’s still hardly anything I’d want more than cold pimento cheese and a sleeve of Ritz crackers on a hot picnic day.

Oh my word. (This is a Southern pie, so naturally I have to start this post with a Southern expression.) The past few days have been the happiest kind of whirlwind, for reasons I can’t wait to share with you all in the coming weeks. As I’m writing this I’m so full and content and dazed that I’m not sure I’m in a fit state to write this for you all! So I’ll keep it short and just share with you something to soothe and calm, amidst all the excitement.

For those of you who are new to chess pie, this little blurb by Southern Living perfectly sums up all you need to know, including the theories behind its funny name. Mine is a fairly standard recipe for the Southern classic, but with a teensy twist (and made miniature, surprise surprise). By infusing the cream with chamomile and thyme, the resulting custard is smooth and sweet, but with faint floral and savory notes that I found irresistible.

The tricky thing about making this mini is that does require you to prepare at least a few tablespoons to 1/4 cup more cream than you’ll end up using — I couldn’t think of a way to infuse the flavor sufficiently otherwise. I found a use for the extra cream by doubling the recipe below to make the four pies shown (and it gave me the chance to tweak the proportions to the right consistency of custard), but I think the extra cream would have been lovely too in tea or coffee, or used to add just the faintest flavor to ice cream. If you’re loathe to waste cream, you could brew tea with the thyme and chamomile, chill it or freeze it, then use it to flavor the pie crust instead.

Finally, note that you’ll need at least an hour of chilling time for the pie crust, and you’ll also need to prebake the crusts, so give plenty of time for this or prepare the dough the night before (or on a separate occasion and freeze).

Enjoy! And, on a separate note, you can find my little recipe for Chinese tea eggs up on Food52 today!

One of my favorite restaurants back home serves a mean creamed corn. Decadent, syrupy-sweet, almost like a custard. (Whenever my dad orders it and the waitress asks if we’d like dessert, he always says, “Got my dessert right here!” and holds it up with big grin. My father is a faithful subscriber to the school of Jolly Dad Banter.) To me, it’s one of the ultimate comfort foods, a dish that typifies warm, indulgent Southern nourishment.